A Nightmare on Elm Street: Sweet Dreams
by J4ck-0-L4nt3rn
Summary: After his defeat, Freddy's back for round two. There is one other child from Badham Preschool that still lives in Springwood and Freddy seeks him out to exploit his hidden memories and regain strength. He finds that occupying an ill, defeated mind an easy and lucrative venture. Especially when that mind exalts an idealized image of him in the absence of the darker memories.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

Something stirred in the darkness, reaching out in all directions. There was a glimmer somewhere, a spark of hope to reignite his existence. They thought he'd been defeated for good, torched once more in the only safe haven he'd had. He'd shown that bitch though. She was completely crazy now. Or so they thought. In time he'd get her, but first: he had to gather his strength. In Springwood was still nestled a precious gem of untouched memory plunged into the darkest reaches of the mind, buried underneath thirteen years' time. He sought it out, formed a vague shadow in the sleeping boy's dreamscape. He drank in the apprehensive attention, and the early forms of fear as shadow took his mind. He had to wake that memory, wrest it to the surface. He would remember and he would have Springwood once more.

...

Nick popped a pill into his mouth, downed it with the rest of his orange juice. He grabbed his bag and headed out to the bus stop. He waited alone for 15 minutes before it pulled up. He found an empty seat and plopped down with his bag next to him, feeling as if he were in a time loop. He watched his life from outside himself. School would be exactly the same as the day before, the week before, the year before, and yet he still had to go. Though he made the attempt, he found it difficult to apply himself. It lacked meaning. He saw no future for himself and thus every task, every breath was a wasted effort. But he tried not to think like that. He tried not to think of anything. The medicine helped. It fogged his mind.

He filed off the bus with the rest of the muddled, groggy students towards the long dull building. He was swallowed up by the throng of students as he entered the halls and followed the ghosts of footsteps past to his first period classroom. He was bumped and jostled on his way, but it wasn't intentional. It was too early for that. The intentional stuff started around midday.

He attempted to pay attention, but he slipped seamlessly into daydreams, missing whole portions of important lectures. He never had much idea of what he missed. He consulted his books for classwork and homework and did his best to fill in any gaps. He felt bad. His parents wanted him to do well. He just couldn't try very hard most days. Particularly that day, his mind kept drifting to the dreams he'd had that night.

The school day slipped by in a haze and his mother picked him up for his appointment with his therapist. He didn't particularly care for the appointments, but he liked being able skip out on the bus ride home.

"Hi, Nick," Dr. Merkel gestured to his seat. "How are you doing?" She sat across from him clipboard propped up on her crossed knees.

"Okay." He used to follow with, _"and you?"_ but he'd found that therapists, or at least this one, did not really respond to personal questions, even superficial ones like that. So he'd stopped.

"How was school?"

"The same." The last thing he wanted was for Dr. Merkel to think he'd gotten worse or be dissatisfied with his progress and pump him full of more drugs, but he also didn't have it in him to completely lie. He couldn't pretend to be all better. That was an act he didn't have the energy to keep up for the rest of his life. If he did, he wouldn't be there in the first place, he supposed. He was still waiting for it to get better. They said it would. _"It'll just take time,"_ they said. He believed them because there was nothing else for him to do.

"How's the medication treating you?" Again, he shrugged.

"It's okay."

"Just okay?"

"I feel like I'm only half there. The mind-chatter stops and I just…exist."

"Mm… So you don't experience the negative thoughts?" She twisted the pen between her fingers.

"Not really. I don't think much of anything…"

"Are you experiencing any of the other side effects that you did with the last ones?"

"Not really. I just feel…" What was the right word? "absent? Like I'm off somewhere else, just kinda watching things happening around me."

"It can just take a little bit to adapt, as we've discussed. Your brain chemistry needs more time to adjust, but based on our previous discussions you seem stable and functional. But if side-effects persist, we'll tweak the dosage again. I'd say this medication has been fairly agreeable for you thus far." He couldn't help but agree to placate her. Satisfied she continued. "How are things at home?"

"The same. I still feel—" _like an animal caged in a zoo_. "I don't like feeling like I'm 'the sick one' all the time." She nodded. "I wish I would just get better," _or disappear._

"It can be difficult for people to understand—most don't have a frame of reference for chronic depression—but they're supportive and you just have to remind yourself they're doing what they can to help. It can be hard to see that through the depression." Yes. His mind was sick, so he couldn't trust it. And he didn't. He just observed thoughts as they went by without feeling one way or the other about them. They were either true or not and there was nothing to do about them. "So what would you like to talk about today?" He didn't know. There'd been so much time without progress he was afraid to keep highlighting it.

"I had a weird dream last night." She raised a brow. "I don't normally dream anymore."

"Do you remember what happened in this dream?" His eyes tracked back and forth.

"Some of it at least… It was nighttime or something and in the distance standing on a hill was a silhouette. He was wearing a hat and had long claw fingers."

"Did he do anything?"

"No…he just kinda waved with his fingers."

"How'd you feel?"

"I was a little afraid, but not too much. It felt like it meant something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I can't place the feeling."

"Try."

"It's like…I don't know. He knew me or something. Maybe I was supposed to know him. I'm not sure. It was a weird feeling."

"What did you do after he waved?"

"Nothing. I just stared at him. I was too afraid to get closer, but not afraid enough to run away. I suppose I was curious. I wanted to know what he was going to do."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing. The dream changed. I was back in my old school, wandering the halls. Someone called my name and I woke up." The therapist was unreadable, pensive.

"Has anything changed recently? Change can be scary and dreaming about the past might signify a wish for things to go back to the way they were."

"No," he shrugged. "Everything's the same."

"Well, shouldn't be the medication. You seem to have acclimated to it and haven't had any complaints of nightmares up to this point." Nick nodded.

"It's probably just a dream."

...

He left the appointment unfulfilled once more. The conversations were rather anticlimactic with the therapist asking more questions than giving answers. This was not how he initially imagined therapy would be. He'd thought they'd have all the answers, but mostly they prodded _him _to come up with answers. Nothing seemed to help, and after years of going on and off, he was beginning to worry.

He and his sister, Elise, sat at the kitchen table doing homework, while his mom started dinner prep. His dad came home, ruffled Elise's hair, patted him on the shoulder, and kissed his mom on the cheek, peering over her shoulder to see what was on the menu.

Nick closed his books and went upstairs. He tried hard to be stable so people wouldn't fret over him, watch his every move. It was exhausting. He flopped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. What had been the point of that day's visit? Nothing happened. All he did was tell her about the short snippet of a dream he'd had. There had been nothing else for him to say. He couldn't tell her how hopeless this all felt. That was asking for stronger meds and maybe a trip to a facility. But he couldn't keep up with this. He was so tired.

Had he always been like this? When did it all start? He'd tried to puzzle it, but his memory was foggy and got more so the farther back he went. His early childhood was just a vague idea. He couldn't really remember much of anything before age eight. He wondered if it was the drugs. He wondered, yet again, why he had to be this way.

...

School let out and as he headed to the bus circle, he spotted someone a distance away through the mass of students. Nick paused and tried to get a better look. The man was crouched, doing something he couldn't see through all the students milling about, but as they dissipated, he approached the man who had his back to him. His heart thudded with a growing sense of familiarity. His breath came slow and guarded. The man's hand moved to his side. He was wearing worn brown gloves, and in his hand he held a pair of garden clippers.

When he stood, Nick stopped abruptly and took in his relaxed, lithe form, his old jeans, grey t-shirt tucked into his pants, wavy brown hair. The man turned around and Nick's heart stopped as he gazed into the face of an old forgotten memory. The man smiled gently at him.

"Freddy?" He couldn't believe it. It had been so long, but after all this time he'd finally found him again. Emotion swelled in his chest as he continued forward. This couldn't be real. The man gazed at him with a soft smile. Nick embraced him tightly.

"I've missed you so much!" There was urgency, desperation. He needed to say everything right then before he lost his chance.

"I've missed you too. My, you've grown," he praised, leaning back. "What happened to your hair?" He pinched his black locks between his fingertips. "Blonde really suited you." Nick smiled, grabbing Freddy's wrist and shifted his eyes away.

"Where'd you go? You left without saying goodbye…"

"Oh," he sighed almost affectionately and though he didn't move he seemed to grow farther away. "Some of the children," his voice gained an uncharacteristic rasp and Freddy's face began melting, "were not as good at keeping secrets," the scenery caught fire and burned away to a dark labyrinth of piping and grated floors, "as you and I." A pile of small bodies burned behind him and a chorus of screams rolled in like a howling wind. He looked at the man before him, disfigured and cackling beneath the roar of flame, arms spread wide to revel in the horror.

"Ng!" Nick woke with a start, sitting upright. His eyes gazed blind into the darkness. He fumbled for the light and curled against the wall as his heart beat wildly in his chest. The fear was steeped in confusion, and as that abated, he was left hollow.

It was just a dream. Of course. Feelings he hadn't felt in so long bubbled up. Confusion, longing, despair. He had wanted closure. He'd wanted to see him again, get some answers, say goodbye. He'd stored all that in the back of his mind. For so many years. He'd practically forgotten all about that time. But he hadn't, it was just buried deep.

He gazed at the time. 3:35. He stayed up longer than he should have, feeling that deep ache over losing him again. He'd been so close. Right there. If only he'd been real. But what did it mean? Why suddenly dream of him after all this time? And what was with that nightmare at the end?

He wiped his eyes. He didn't want to go to school. Not that day.

...

He took his medication early and caught the bus to school, sure he'd forgotten to do some class assignment.

In American History, he was given time to stew. Forever ago in a time that seemed more dream than memory there'd been a kind gardener who worked at the school whose name escaped him. Everyone liked him; Nick thought he'd liked him the most. [After all, everyone had forgotten his eventual absence after a week.] Mr. Krueger always got along with the kids. Nick remembered watching him with the others, longing to have that attention, but something deep inside him told him that attention would never be for him. He knew he was different somehow, not as good. But there was a day when Mr. Krueger saw him, _abandoned_ the others and crouched beside him, offered his hand and his name. Within the next few minutes, he'd become attached to him, hanging from around his neck, not wanting to leave the warm glow of his affection.

At home, his parents tended the bald newborn, turned away only to give him orders: stop doing that, wash up for dinner, eat all your peas—_stop doing that_, go to bed—did you brush your teeth? He was tucked in and kissed on the forehead, but then they were crooning over what they told him was his sister. He'd stare at the ceiling and remember Mr. Krueger, how in those moments his gaze was only for him.

They'd become best friends, and eventually he showed him a secret place just for them. They'd play and talk. Mr. Krueger probed into his home life and discovered the unhappiness. He'd stepped up to fill the void. He'd spent every possible moment with him that he could.

And when he was gone, the void returned more vast and voracious than before. It swallowed him up and eventually his memories slipped with it so that his depression became nameless.

Movement out the window caught his eye. Wavy hair beneath a brown fedora. Freddy? He disappeared from view. No. No way. Nick stood abruptly.

"Nick?" the teacher started with an edge of warning.

"I'll be right back!" He ran from the room, through the halls, racing for the nearest exit. He slammed the doors open and looked all around. "Freddy?!" he shouted as he jogged in the vague direction he seemed to have headed in. "Freddy!" He slowed and circled. "Please no. Don't leave."

_"Nick…"_

"Freddy?" He whipped around. He didn't see him anywhere but his voice hadn't sounded too far off.

_"I'm waiting."_

"Where are you?"

_"In our special place."_ But where was that? Nothing looked right. He couldn't remember how to get there. He began running, desperately hoping to see something familiar. Finally he did. He entered Freddy's living space and marveled at the nostalgic emptiness of it. Everything was still there. He went over to the small bed where they used to talk, and play monsters. He picked up a corner of his ratty blanket and pressed it to his face. His eyes fell shut and he breathed him in. His scent enveloped him in the memory of safety. No matter what happened in that room it always stayed there with them. It was their special thing that no outside force could penetrate. He could take refuge here. Whenever the outside made him feel bad, Freddy would be there to take the hurt away. And his smell reminded him of that. This smell meant he was safe, that everything would be okay. He clutched the blanket in his fists, reluctant to let it go, before dropping it to the mattress to turn towards the picture frame, hiding their secret of secrets. He removed it from the wall and stepped through the hole.

He descended a staircase down into a dark and unfamiliar industrial-looking basement snaked with metal piping and structures he couldn't name. It was faintly illuminated by natural blue light, though he didn't know where it was coming from. The place was so empty and cold. It seemed like despair itself.

His footsteps clacked on the grated flooring, echoing around the hollow, metal shell. He wasn't sure what this place was. His gaze landed on a piece of rumpled cloth. He bent down and picked up what proved to be a child's sweater. Where did that come from?

The room burst into flickering hues of red and orange. Nick gasped and twisted around. The rusted black handrails of the stairs gleamed malevolently in the hellish firelight; and the more he turned, the more the entire place went ablaze. This was the place from his dream, he realized now that it was warm and flaming. He had to get out of there. He whipped around but the stairs were gone.

"_Nicky._" He stopped and whipped around.

"Freddy?" He stood not too far off, gazing fretfully at him. They had to get out of there, the both of them. Freddy held his hand out and reached for him, taking one staggering step towards him.

"Don't leave me, Nicky." He said as flames licked up his heels.

"Freddy!" he shouted and started towards him. The flames ripped up his body and engulfed him. Nick gasped, faltering, as his long-lost friend continued staggering towards him.

"Help me, Nicky!" He couldn't move. Freddy seized him and the flames jumped to Nick, connecting them in a swirling inferno. He screamed.

Giggling sounded near him. The teacher was standing up, frowning at him. "Nick. Are you sleeping in my class?" The classroom. He was back… How?

"No, I-I…I dunno. I don't remember falling asleep, I thought I—" Someone snorted out laughter. He wiped a small bit of drool from the corner of his mouth.

"Do it again and I'm sending you to the principal's." Though he was embarrassed, he wasn't fazed by the threat. He looked out the window where this had all begun, wondering how it was possible he'd fallen asleep without realizing.

As he packed up to leave, someone circled around behind him and screamed in his ear before laughing and calling him a little bitch. Johnny. He didn't spare a glance back. As much as it hurt, it didn't matter.

He returned home, one more day of hell behind him. He gazed at himself in the mirror and touched his hair. _"What happened to your hair?"_ Freddy missed the blonde. Of course he wasn't real, but this would come as close as he could ever get to Freddy again. He might hate it, he might get made fun of for it, but if dream-Freddy liked it, then he'd do it for him.

...

Dr. Merkel sipped a glass of wine in front of the flickering television screen, unwinding from the day's work. She let the screen and drink steal the worries of other people from her shoulders for the night and when it was time for bed and she felt sufficiently warmed, she clicked off the screen and settled in for the night.

Quiet tapping sounded on the outside of the window and she stilled. Listening. It happened again a little louder. Unnerved, she slowly slipped out of bed and grabbed her phone. She couldn't imagine a person was out there doing that, but _something_ was making the sound.

She peeked out the side of the curtains. No one. She watched for a moment longer, then retreated. Odd.

A loud bang made her jump. She was too afraid to look again and come face to face with whatever that was. She went outside and made her way quietly around the house, 911 pre-dialed just in case.

She gazed around the corner towards her window and saw nothing. What the hell had made that noise? She glanced around herself again and saw not a soul moving. Not even cars passing by. The sound at least was gone. Even the wind had silenced.

She turned to go back inside.

"TAG! YOU'RE IT!" She screamed as the silhouette of a man slashed down at her. She stumbled back. She was okay. But she'd dropped her phone in fright and the man was standing there. Wearing a hat and one glove with long pointed fingers. He chuckled darkly and stalked towards her. She bolted around him and back into the house. She threw the door shut and rushed to the phone. She jabbed the buttons and waited, but nothing happened. She tried again and still nothing. "Oh my god, oh my god." She turned the phone over and looked around. A couple feet of phone cord dangled loosely from the receiver.

"Sorry. I'm afraid I'm a little clumsy with these." He raised his hand which seemed to be gloved with knives attached to the fingers. She gasped.

"Get the hell out of my house!" she shouted before running towards the back. She got to the back door but it was locked and she couldn't get it to release. She heard the laughing behind her and turned. She wound through the kitchen and to the hall, ducking into her bedroom. She eased the door shut and locked it. She leaned her weight against the door, terrified. She had to get out.

Something banged on the door behind her and she let out a scream.

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" The door knob jiggled furiously. She ran to the window, fumbling with the locks and threw it open. She shoved against the screen over and over til I gave way. She crawled through and dropped down with a thud. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, only a chorus of crickets and her terrified panting breaking the silence. "Oh god," she whispered. She made herself turn and run towards the neighbor's house.

"Where are you going?" a demonic voice sounded. She shrieked and ran faster. But suddenly she couldn't move so well and the space in front of her seemed to stretch impossibly long. Her neighbor now seemed a mile away.

The silhouette stretched upwards to impossible proportions as the space between them shrunk. He laughed as she moved inexorably into his reach even as she continued moving her heavy limbs forward.

She woke herself with a scream. She was sitting in bed, the lamp still on beside her. She held her forehead as she caught her breath, reviewing the dream and realizing it for what it was. "Oh god," she sighed. She got herself a drink of water and spent some time awake, trying to shake the feeling of terror. She didn't remember the last time she had a nightmare, especially one so intense and vivid. It was crazy…

Didn't that kid, Nick, tell her about dreaming of a silhouette with claw fingers? Guess she hadn't been as unwound as she thought before turning in. But why, of all things, did she have a nightmare about that boy's simple little dream? She hadn't found anything particularly unnerving about it. But there'd been something almost familiar about him in _her _dream that set her on edge. Nick had said the same thing: that he thought he knew him or something.

She closed her eyes and did some breathing exercises then laid down again.

Wait.

She stared across the room, her brows furrowed. She didn't ever remember laying down and when she'd woken up she was sitting. Come to think of it, she didn't remember falling asleep either. Maybe a bit too much to drink? Some stress to go with it? She must have conked right out. Went to blink, and never opened her eyes again. It was weird, but there was no other explanation. This time she _did_ close her eyes, and when she woke the next morning, she remembered falling asleep.

...

**A/N: **I pulled what I wanted from all Freddy movies. Specifically, the time period and some of the back story was pulled from the remake, though most else is pulled from the original depictions.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

There he was: a new blonde. Light like Freddy remembered it. He appreciated it the way he thought Freddy would. Brushing it, playing with it.

"Oh, you dyed your hair back!" his mother gushed with a broad grin. "It looks nice!" He smiled for her.

"Thanks." She probably thought blonde meant he was feeling happier. That he was making progress. Because yellow means happy and black means sad right? It was almost sweet, even if controlling. His family meant well, but they were stifling. It always felt like they were trying to stuff him into a box. Like if he just did normal things and acted a certain way he'd be fine again. _'Again'_? Was there a time he'd felt fine? It was hard to tell; even when he'd known Freddy he'd felt weighted by something he couldn't name.

He already missed the black, but he missed Freddy more. Pretending he could see and appreciate it brought him joy that nullified his own desires. Still, the depression that was never fooled, never pacified, hungered beneath the tightly-held delusion. Soon enough, he was alone in his room again, sitting against the bed, lulled by the music playing softly as he stared into forever and lost himself in thought.

He twisted a pocketknife idly in his hands. Pale lines hashed the soft underside of his forearm from wrist to elbow. A few were still light pink. He'd tried to stop. The medication took him to this numb place that was an unsettling imitation of contentment. He didn't feel the urge as strong, but its effectiveness was inconsistent. He was tired of changing medications, increasing doses…it was hopeless. So he lied. They thought he was stable, okay enough.

But he had to do this. Freddy opened up a deep wound and now he needed to make it real. He had to let the feelings bleed out of him. It felt like he was going to burst.

He opened the knife and envisioned the relief that was about to come. The cutting never fixed anything, but it gave him inexplicable relief for a short time. The music sent a single chill through him as he shut his eyes. He opened them again and fixed on the gleam of the blade. He pressed it gently against his skin, a pang of shame going through him at adding to the ugliness of his arm.

"You're blonde again." Nick gasped at the sound of Freddy's voice, but when he gazed up he was met with the sight of the grizzled abomination he'd turned into in the dream. He knew he hadn't gone to sleep or been daydreaming, so how was he there? Standing just feet from him? "Did you do that for me?" This time it was the new Freddy's voice that spoke, harsh and taunting. Tears welled in his eyes. This was it. He was finally going crazy. He was hallucinating now. The thought terrified him. His outlook was bleak enough. Now he'd have no hope. He swallowed. "How sweet," he reached out…touched a lock of his hair with one gnarled hand. "Red shows up so much better on blonde."

"Freddy?" he uttered weakly, scrunching back against the corner. He chuckled and tilted his head.

"What did you plan on doing with that little thing anyway? You should invest in some of these." Freddy wiggled his bladed glove at him. "They get the job done." Nick gave a shout as Freddy cut off his own hand. Sickly-yellow blood sprayed out and dribbled from the stump. What sort of nightmare visions was he having? This wasn't right. Was the medication disagreeing with him? But it'd been all day since he'd taken it and wasn't due again til tomorrow. He was crazy. He really was.

The severed body part rolled between his feet. "Oh. Need a hand?" he cackled as it hopped onto its fingers and ran at him. Nick screamed and scrambled back, brushing at it, but missing for fear of touching it. It seized his throat and lifted him up onto the bed as Freddy sauntered over. "Oh, it feels _good_ to be back." He hopped on top of him and jabbed his stump against the base of his hand. He relaxed his grip and Nick stared up at him in existential horror.

"I always liked you so much. I wanted more than anything to see you again. Now I start dreaming of you and you're like this. What's wrong with me? Why am I having such horrible visions of you?"

"Because I'm _real_, little Nicky. And my skin is a testament to my sins."

"That's impossible. I must be crazy," warm tears rolled down his cheeks. "I wish you really were here. I need you. I'm such a mess now." He sniffled as he gazed at the familiar lines in his gnarled face. He was so different in this vision, but he still could see some defining traits that were _him_ and he took _some _comfort in that. "I'm not sure even you could fix me now…but I wish so bad you were here to try. I'm just one bad day away…from waiting for you on the other side." He touched the vision's face. "But would you even remember me anymore?"

"How could I forget?" his head tilted slowly to the side. Of course, his mind would make the vision say that. But then, if his mind did the things he wanted, why twist Freddy into this nightmare before him? "Do you remember the little games we used to play?"

"I think so." He remembered some things, but it still felt like there was a fog over that period of his life. He wasn't sure how much he actually remembered. The hand around his throat dragged down his chest, over his abdomen and stopped below his bellybutton. Freddy held eye contact as he paused there, watching Nick's chest heave up and down. His fingers flicked the hem of his shirt up and pushed it upwards. Freddy traced his melted, gnarled fingers over his smooth, pale stomach. "I'm hungry." Nick started as he gnashed a set of yellow, jagged teeth.

_"I'm gonna getcha!" He followed the giggling child around the room before snatching him up with a roar and spinning him from side to side. He dropped him on the bed and climbed over his small, squirming body. He jerked his shirt up and proclaimed, "What a tasty little tummy you have!" Freddy dove in and Nick shrieked as his teeth scraped at him. "The monster's gonna gobble you all up!" His laughter echoed all around the small room. Nick kicked, grabbing at his hair._

He was always gentle at first, Nick remembered as the hallucination bit into him, then he'd bite harder and harder, but Nick had always figured it was worth it. He didn't want to spoil the fun by telling him it hurt. It hadn't been that bad anyway. After a while it just became normal. That just meant the monster was really hungry. And long after Freddy had passed from his life, he'd found that pain wasn't so bad anyway.

He cried out as Freddy's teeth sunk into his flesh once more. He peppered bites all over his torso while Nick cried out and grabbed at his sweater. It never hurt this much. "Stop!" he cried as Freddy buried his face in his abdomen. Freddy shook his head back and forth and Nick could feel his teeth tearing at his skin. A warm wet tongue dragged over his stomach before Freddy lifted his head.

"But you taste so good." His mouth was covered in blood. Nick looked down and saw his stomach was a mess of red. He shrieked. Freddy laughed and dove in again.

"Nick?" He gasped and sat up. Another knock sounded. "Nick, are you okay?" The door opened. Shit! She'd see the blade, she'd see Freddy—

He looked around himself. Freddy was gone. Of course he was. Freddy wasn't real. He was just a hallucination. He gently touched his chest where he could feel the lingering pain. He patted down his stomach as his mom stepped in.

"Hey, sorry. I fell asleep. I must have had a nightmare."

"Sounded like a pretty bad one." She looked worried. Nick was used to that expression.

"Yeah. I don't remember dreaming or anything. I'm fine now."

"Okay. Dinner's just about ready."

"Okay. Be there in a few." He wasn't hungry. She left, shutting the door after herself. He touched his stomach again. He _still _felt an ache. He lifted his shirt.

The hair rose all over his body and he dropped his shirt, feeling a cold sickness wash over him. It wasn't real… Nick went to the bathroom, ripped his shirt off and looked at himself. Teeth marks made opposing crescents all over his chest and abdomen. That was impossible. He swallowed and his hands became shaky. He closed his eyes. Am I still hallucinating? He opened them again. The bites were still there and it seemed like they were in the same places. Maybe his mind was just good at remembering where it thought they were?

He pressed his fingers against one of the bites and winced. It hurt like it was real. He needed someone to look at him, to see if they could see it. But what if it was real and they wanted to know what happened or thought he was a freak? There was no way he could explain it. Or what if it wasn't and they thought he was crazy? He couldn't show anyone.

He sat across from his sister at the table picking slowly at his food. The news played on low and the table was plagued with the frequent uncomfortable silence that often came with caring for a mentally ill child. His thoughts were consumed by Freddy and each clink of dishware made him flinch in self-conscious shame at the thoughts as if they knew what he was thinking.

He thought of the old Freddy, and the new, disfigured Freddy. How could they possibly be the same? He was so different. He was ugly, sadistic. Even his voice was changed. The Freddy he knew was gentle and kind. Sure he'd bite too hard, but he was only playing. He hadn't meant to. He slipped his hand under his shirt to touch the bite near his bellybutton. Still there. He didn't know what to think. It was impossible for him to be real, but the bites were still there. If he was actually real, what had happened?

"So, Nicholas," his father's eyes flicked up to him, "how you holding up?" He hated that these discussions were public. His sister kept her eyes averted. His mom's gaze flitted covertly between him and her food. She'd talked hadn't she? Told him about the nightmares. He shrugged.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah?" He sighed.

"Just a few nightmares. No big deal."

"Mm." He nodded. "No other changes? Everything good at school?"

"Yes, I'm fine." He seemed satisfied with this; his mother less so. What was the point of it all? Treating him like a sick, unpredictable animal his whole life. Why not just put him down? It's not like he was contributing anything to anyone. His life was rather worthless, he thought. What he was doing right now, wasn't even really living anyway. He felt like a prisoner. Medicated, controlled, observed.

He decided not to take his meds anymore. It was obvious they weren't doing anything. At least not enough. He could still see and feel the bite marks that shouldn't be.

...

He tossed and turned all night dreaming of hell and the fallen angel that awaited him there. He dreamt of a painless death by fire, feeling warm and safe in its embrace, being taken apart layer by layer. He dreamt of his transformation being watched by a pair of shadowed, amber eyes.

When he awoke drenched in sweat and breathless, he was quickly pulled under again into that muted hellscape. Chains were coiled around his body, his arms pulled taut above his head and he could feel the presence grow behind him. At first there was only silence, save for the hissing of the pipes and the roaring of the boiler. Then the slow scrape of metal broke through somewhere far behind him. That came to a slow stop. Then tapping, growing louder and louder. He felt him. Growing closer. And closer. The tapping stopped but he could hear the footsteps, each measured pace. His skin prickled. The last footstep sounded right behind him… He could feel his warm breath puff against the back of his neck. Nick's eyes fluttered shut. Nothing but heat touched his flesh as the moments stretched into forever, but something contacted the chain high up and clinked over each link above his hands. His chest heaved as the heat intensified, suffocating him. Sweat dripped from his body. Something brushed the back of his head and a striped elbow came into view as the chain clinked just above his hands. His breath shook as the glove lowered in front of his face, blades ghosting over him just a hair's breadth away. The chain that wrapped around his torso was his only protection as the razors dragged heavily over his body. They paused to tap over his stomach. One blade dipped down in one of the gaps between chain and scratched an opening in his shirt. The hand slowly withdrew and once more he could see no part of him. He panted staring into the space in front of him feeling the lingering presence and the palpable empty space between them. He worried over what would happen.

He closed his eyes and tried to will the dream away. His presence seemed to recede though he could not hear movement. As the silence persisted with the darkness behind his eyelids, he wondered, _hoped_ that he would wake. He opened his eyes again.

Nothing changed. He was still trapped in the dream. His eyes flickered around. He saw no sign of the demon, just the warm flickering light reflecting off the metal. He took a breath and closed his eyes again, feeling his hair rise. He concentrated, shook his head. He opened again.

"_BOO_," the demon shouted in front of him. He drew his arm back and plunged the knives into him.

...

Nick poked at his breakfast, the smell of coffee wafting under his nose and the crinkle of newspaper adding to the ambiance of Sunday morning. His mother kept casting worried glances his way. Every Sunday they got up early and went to church as a family. In the past his dad's attendance record had been spotty, but became impeccable around his middle school years: a few months after they discovered Nick had a serious problem. He got the impression his mother thought it would help. He wished he'd just be left at home, but appreciated the sentiment.

After breakfast he dressed in black slacks and a white button-down. He paused, pressing his fingers around his wounds. They stung quite a bit. The one on his abdomen felt especially bruised. He decided an undershirt would be best. Just in case. He emerged from his room redressed in a white undershirt and navy blue button-down.

They took their seats near the front. Nick supposed that brought them closer to Jesus. As everyone took their places, Father Haley addressed the congregation. Soon after, Nick began to zone out and took cues from his family for standing and kneeling.

Once, as the organ cued them to stand, he looked on with his mother's book muttering along softly and saw glaring profanities in the text. He trailed off as he got to the first one and read ahead a few lines. This wasn't right. He blinked a couple times.

Everything went back to normal. His sickness was evolving, getting worse. He just had to be mindful of it, not believe anything that seemed particularly out of place.

During communion he knelt on the soft pad between his sister and mother, hands cupped above the railing to receive the wafer.

"The body of Christ, the bread of heaven."

Everything felt numb and rehearsed. Like he wasn't even there.

"The blood of Christ. The cup of salvation."

The clergymen stepped down the line of waiting worshippers, placing wafers on tongue or hand and providing sips of wine.

"The body of Christ, the bread of heaven."

Father placed the wafer in his mom's cupped hands. As he moved past her, she placed the wafer in her mouth.

"The blood of Christ. The cup of salvation."

Father Haley now stood before him.

"The body of Christ…" In between his fingers was a strange pinkish mass with a smooth, pale top layer. "The bread of heaven." It settled lukewarm and wet in his hands. Nick gazed on in horror at the small lump of raw meat.

"The blood of Christ. The cup of salvation."

The skin looked human. This was…human meat.

"The body of Christ. The bread of heaven."

No, it wasn't real. He blinked, but it didn't go away. The other clergyman stepped in front of him with the goblet.

"The blood of Christ," he plucked the morsel from his hand and dipped it into the cup. It emerged covered in thick, dark blood. "The cup of salvation." His jaw shook as he opened. The full-bodied metallic taste of blood coated his tongue as the soft pliant meat settled heavily there. His stomach heaved as he passed. He made the sign of the cross and stood. It wasn't real. But the hallucination continued to assault his senses. His tongue bowed under it, trying to escape its persistent weight and leave it floating there. His stomach rolled, throat spasmed. He put everything into trying not to hurl and he wasn't sure if he'd make it. As his mother sat, he moved past, and she hissed something at him. He couldn't even look back.

He made for the nearest bathroom, locking himself in the single chamber. He let it fall out of his mouth into the toilet with a sickening plop. He closed his eyes and rode out the heaving, spitting the flavor into the bowl.

He opened his watering eyes and looked upwards where he found a portrait of Jesus staring down at him.

"My son, why have you forsaken me?" the portrait's lips moved, his eyes beseeching him. This isn't happening. "I suffered for you." This isn't real. Jesus's face contorted as the whole portrait changed to a fiery hue. The demonic face fought to free itself from its bindings, growing larger as it bulged out. "HEATHEN!" it screamed. Nick screamed and scrambled back, bashing into the wall as laughter washed over him. He didn't see the portrait change back, he didn't remember closing his eyes at all, but it was back to normal and he rushed to flush the piece of bloody meat. He nearly heaved again when he accidentally watched it go, wriggling against the current. He clawed up the counter and saw his frightened face staring back at him, lips smeared with blood. He washed his face and hurried to rejoin his family.

"Nick!" his mom whispered. "Where were you?"

"I suddenly felt really nauseous," he whispered back. That concerned look again.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so." That was the end of that for the time being as she refocused her attention on the service.

Maybe he _should_ take his medication…

...

Nick didn't think his meds were really helping, but that day's visions were worse than the previous. Maybe continuing did at least temper them. He couldn't tell anyone though. The medication would get stronger. Everyone would think he was crazy. He'd become a zombie, barely conscious of his own existence. He already wasn't crazy about living; he certainly didn't want to live like _that_. He just wanted to be cured or killed; this was so tiring. He couldn't imagine being cured though. That seemed impossible. How would that even feel? All he could ever remember was this veil of melancholy hanging over him in every moment, even the happy ones. Always lingering in the background.

He was in no mood to eat the rest of the day. He kept reliving the raw piece of flesh heavy on his tongue.

That evening, he stepped into the shower, hoping to wash away the demons clinging to him. He flinched when he touched the bite on his stomach. It looked red, inflamed. Nick grabbed the soap and scrubbed at the bites as a too-real sting sounded through them. He gritted his teeth.

_"Don't drop the soap!"_ Nick seized with a horrified gasp. Freddy cackled behind him as the bar banged between his feet and slid towards the drain. He glanced around frantically, but saw nothing. He backed up under the stream into the corner and peered out of the shower curtains, just to be sure. The pipes banged in the wall and as he looked up a spray of red rushed down at him. He cried out and covered his eyes. He slid to the other side of the shower and stared at the sanguine flow, splashing the tub with thick droplets of scarlet, choking the drain as it went.

There was a tap against the shower curtains, and four blades sliced through dragging downwards. They retreated, and a gash was parted and an eye was put up to it, swiveling around before locking onto him. "Peek-a-boo!" Nick ripped the curtain back with a cry only to see nothing once more. His chest heaved as his eyes darted around the small, tiled room, blood waterfall beating down, forming a small puddle on the outside of the tub. He switched off the water, counted under his breath. He trailed off as he saw himself in the mirror. A blood-splattered spectacle. His hair was thick with it, his eyes seemed unnaturally white against the uneven coating of red around them. It oozed down his body and dripped loudly into the tub. His hand shook as he turned the water back on, praying it would be—

Normal. It was normal again. He inched under the fall to rinse himself, closing his eyes only for the briefest of seconds to rinse his face.

He shut off the water again and listened to the silence, back to the wall. This all came on so suddenly and it just kept happening. He was terrified that he'd developed schizophrenia. The depression was bad enough, but that was curable—at least in most cases. Schizophrenia…that entered the realm of dysfunctional. Crazy. It was something that was 'managed'. There was no cure. He grabbed his towel, glancing at the door as his fingers closed around the cloth. He slowly pulled it off the hanger, inspecting the mirror.

Something crawled across his hand.

He chanced a glance at his towel. It was crawling with cockroaches. He shouted and dropped it, brushing off his hand. The bugs scattered, one scuttling into the tub with him and down the drain. Nick slammed the drain shut and cowered cold and wet in a corner of the shower. This wasn't real. He pressed his hands to his head. This wasn't real… Was it real?

He was afraid to close his eyes, so he stared into the room, lights growing brighter in his unblinking eyes. When his breath settled, he stood cautiously, cold droplets of water splashing onto his shoulders and rolling down his back. He checked the bath matt for critters before stepping onto it, glancing at his rumpled towel warily. He hugged himself against the cold and made his way to the closet. He pulled a spare towel and turned.

He saw Freddy behind him before he grabbed him. One arm circled around his waist and the bladed glove reached in front of his face and traced gently down his chest. "Wet's a good look for you," he rumbled softly in his ear. Nick shuddered, open mouth frozen in a silent scream watching thin trails appear on his chest in the mirror.

"Is this real?" he murmured. "I'm not just crazy?"

"Oh, I'm real," he assured him. He spun him around and pinned him against the counter. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"This is impossible. You can't just come out of thin air—"

"But I just did."

"People can't do that. And Freddy looked…"

"Ah," he laughed softly, removing his hat. "I know I look a little different. Being burned alive has a way of doing that to a man."

"Burned alive?"

"I wasn't very popular with the parents after they found out what I was doing to their children. Though I noticed…yours weren't invited to the party." He gave a cheeky smile, tapping a blade against the side of his face.

"What did you do?" Freddy chuckled, rocking his head

"Played _naughty_ little games." He grinned wickedly, wiggling his claws at him. "For example: Hide the Body," he growled and spun him around. Images of mutilated children flashed in the mirror. He watched on as clothes were torn away, soft flesh split in long red valleys, small bodies reduced to char in the furnace. He shut his eyes as children's screams rang in his ears. Freddy couldn't have done this. In his mind's eye, he saw the sunny days where they rolled around in the grass, laughing with his kind eyes and genuine smile. So different from this man whose every expression seemed sinister.

"You're lying… Freddy wouldn't—" Freddy laughed at his ignorance. "But…we… You were always so nice to me." Freddy couldn't have done something like that.

"Of course. You were my special little playmate." Nick wasn't sure what that meant. He was nice to all the children, and how was he any different from the others? What made him 'special'? _If_ this man really _was_ Freddy at all.

"How can I know that you're really him? I don't even trust that I'm not hallucinating…"

"I remembered your favorite game, didn't I?" he pointed at his bite marks. "And if I wasn't real would those still be there?"

"But I thought I was just seeing things… Because this kind of thing can't be real." He'd known it was unlikely to have a consistent hallucination that never went away, but it seemed more reasonable than believing a ghost had put them there. "But I want it to be. I wanted to see you again."

"Here I am." Nick watched him in the mirror, head tilted down to look at him.

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart." He traced an X over his chest with a blade. He seemed so dangerous now. Nothing like how he once was.

"So...that means you're dead, then?" Nick asked before turning away from the mirror to look at him directly. "You didn't _leave_ the school, you were murdered?" Tears welled in his eyes. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" He'd spent so long wondering, wishing, hoping until the memory faded into the backdrop of his depression. He thought of the kind man from his childhood, he imagined him in that fire. He clutched the towel tighter and pressed his other hand over his eyes. The tears were warm as they spilled over his lashes.

"You're the only one to cry for me," the back of a claw traced over his cheek. "I knew you were a special boy." Nick shuddered.

"I missed you… I was so alone."

"Yes…but I've become something much greater." His tongue grazed over his teeth.

"But I don't understand. Why are you so different now? You never used to be like this. I don't get it." He chuckled, shifting his weight to the side.

"I was always this. But I tried to behave myself. A little anyway."

"Nick!" His mother banged on the door. Nick flinched and fumbled with his towel.

"Y-yeah..?" He paused, head whipping to either side. He was gone. He turned around and looked in the mirror.

"Are you okay? You've been in there for nearly an hour. Your sister's waiting."

"An hour?" he exclaimed. "How is that possible..? I just finished showering."

"The water shut off about half an hour ago." Nick's eyes wandered to the side. How? "Are you feeling alright?" Reluctantly he opened the door.

"Yeah, no, I-I…I guess I got lost in thought. Lost track of the time somehow. Sorry."

"Let me see your arms." Nick bowed his head and presented his hashed arm to her, nothing new for her prying eyes to find.

"Okay," she whispered and he kept his gaze averted. "Well, go get dressed." She left and his sister brushed past him to use the bathroom.

Nick locked himself in his room. It was lucky Freddy had interrupted him yesterday. His mother would have found the mark just then. Her request tore at him inside. Inspecting him like some animal, looking for defects. He didn't want to live his life this way, but when would it end? He wasn't getting better and he never would. Maybe he should just…

No. Bad thoughts, he told himself, but he knew he didn't believe it. They were _right_ thoughts. And they kept him up that night.

The more he thought, the more he came to realize: why not? What was he really surviving for anyway?


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Nick couldn't sleep that night. His depression was in full force. He stared up at the ceiling, lamp aglow to ward off the nightmares. Freddy was real. He was dead. And he'd changed. He wondered what had really happened when he was a kid. He seemed to genuinely like him, but did he? Had that been a lie? Had he really been without anyone this whole time? But he used to look at him like that. How is it possible that he never cared? Nick didn't understand what was going on, but it felt like the last good thing had finally been ripped from him. Twisted and sullied. He only barely held on for the sake of his parents. He'd felt no reason to continue living, but he was sick, so knew what he felt was a lie. He couldn't see clearly. That's what he held onto to make continuing easier, but that didn't matter anymore. For some reason, Freddy had caused him to lose grip on his flimsy motivation to stick it out.

He sat up as that shameful urge built up in him and grabbed his pocket knife. He looked at the ugly marks on his arm and bit his lip, hating himself before he'd even begun. Nick placed the blade against a thin, smooth patch and jerked it across. He clenched his teeth and gazed at the thin white trench. Slowly tiny spots of red showed up in the pale meat and soon the trench was filled with blood. He tilted his arm to watch it run over.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

...

He gazed at the darkened church, cold wind gusting against his face. He watched his breath slowly billow in front of him like his soul making its escape. He'd needed to go for a walk. A very long walk. And just in case, he'd left his pre-written letter out for his parents to find. He'd had it hidden away so he wouldn't have to worry about it if or when the time came.

Nick detoured into the secluded garden and gazed at the large likeness of the Savior statue that seemed to welcome him with open arms, a smiling lamb at his side. Nick climbed up on the large pedestal and sat at his feet, head leaning against his leg. The stone froze him through his jacket and felt damp beneath his bottom. He closed his eyes and breathed. He welcomed the chill into himself with a shudder. His eyes turned up to the stars. They weren't Catholic. Maybe he'd still get into heaven. He tilted his face towards the statue behind him. Jesus looked like the type who'd accept him no matter what. He tried to help the pathetic and wretched just like himself, and the look on his face…he seemed to _want_ to help him. To accept him into the fold and fill this bottomless void in him that had persisted through most of his life. Maybe the only way he could fill it was in death. Maybe he was just waiting for him. And with him…Freddy. Maybe he'd see the real Freddy again on the other side.

Nick reached above the lamb's head towards Jesus' hand but couldn't quite reach, so he let it drop to his side once more. He didn't feel he deserved help, though it didn't stop him from wanting. He felt among the hopeless. And who knows? Maybe he wouldn't get into heaven after all. Nobody really knew God's rules or what lie on the other side.

Nick took his jacket off, teeth chattering and left it rumpled over the savior's feet. Was it time? He felt the weight of the knife in his palm, ran his finger over the grooves. No. Not yet.

He sat for a while longer, gazing at the swaying, darkened trees and the stars as the crickets chirped feverishly around him. Why did everything feel like it was falling apart? He was never happy, but he strove to maintain the precarious balance that he had upon the edge of the abyss. He was content to stay there. It was a relief compared to the void he found himself in from time to time, like he was in now. It rarely made rational sense, but this disease of the mind was not rational. He was a victim of himself, and he'd spent his life simply surviving. A good day consisted of low-level depression without thoughts of harming himself. Those were the days he looked forward to in his bleak, meaningless existence. And what of Freddy? His disease had either gotten worse or his best friend had perished and become some hellish abomination, only a shadow of the kind man he had been. He wondered, if that truly was the real Freddy, if Freddy had ever cared for him? Had it all been an act? Maybe he had just been waiting for the right time to end him.

He bowed his head and squinted against the tears that wanted to form. Even his only friend thought he'd be better dead. Nick sniffled and looked up. Okay. So be it. At least someone supported his decision. Just like he'd dyed himself blonde again for his beloved dream-figure, he'd kill himself too. He took his blade out and considered it. It felt like something was missing. Something wasn't quite right. He turned his eyes upwards again. But he was ready to go. He was ready for all this to stop, for the swirling void in his heart to be snuffed out, the yearning to come to an end, the cessation to his suffering.

He pet the lamb's head and turned to look into the savior's face. He gazed down at him lovingly, calling him back to the flock. He blinked away the wetness in his eyes and pressed back into the stone monument. He took the blade to his arm. The way you were supposed to if you "meant it". This was it. It was finally over. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and jerked the blade down.

"No!" Freddy rasped. Nick's eyes snapped open. The perimeter of the garden was ablaze and for a moment he believed he'd entered hell. He glanced down as the pocket knife shifted in his hand. In place of the knife, a snake reared up to eye level, tail slapping against his arm and coiling around it as it hissed at him. Nick flung it from himself, watching it fly over the pedestal towards the dark figure in the distance. His gaze settled on the flickering silhouette before him. "Your life is mine!" Freddy growled, stalking closer.

"Why do you care?" he asked. "You're not the Freddy I knew. You seem to have no care for me. But if you'd like to take my life instead," he thrust his arms out to him, "please do it. Hurry." Freddy's lip curled back. "Without you, I have nothing left." Tears spilled over now as he offered his life to the demon in the firelight. Freddy considered him quietly, stepping closer.

"I need you, Nicky."

"How could you need me?" he implored, arms falling lower. "I'm pathetic and worthless. _I'm the one_ that needed you, and now I don't know if you ever actually cared—and, you know, it's okay if you didn't, I just wish you would have killed me then, so I wouldn't have wasted so much time living for the sake of living. My parents could have used this time to get over my death instead of paying to treat me with things that aren't working." Freddy was feet from the statue's platform. "I don't want to be alive, it's everyone else that wants me this way. So, please just kill me if that's what you want." Freddy leapt onto the stone pedestal, landing crouched in front of Nick. "You're the only one that ever made me feel okay," he continued, shrinking away. "And I'm not okay right now, I'm not okay and I never will be—" Freddy hit his claws against the stone. Nick flinched and stared into his shadowed eyes. He leaned in close. So close, their noses nearly touched.

"Oh…little Nicky," he breathed. He swallowed, fixed on the jagged, yellow-tipped teeth. The claws scratched down the stone as Freddy pulled him closer. He smelled of sulfur and char. Nick's breath came out jagged, broken as his trembling fingers sought out his back. He closed his eyes. It had been so long since he'd gotten to do this. Since he could climb into Freddy's arms and feel alright again. Away from the people and things that made him feel so alone and awful.

"I like you, little Nicky." His warm wet tongue dragged over the shell of his ear as Nick cringed, turning his head away. "So many times I fantasized about dicing you up," he tapped the knives heavily against his back. "But I enjoyed the way you begged and squealed too much."

"But I loved you…"

"Ahhh. This is the way I love…" He separated, pushing his bangs over his forehead with a long sharp blade. Nick stared into the face of his childhood-gone-sour. This seemed a fitting way for him to be loved, he supposed. Just as long as he _was _loved…

"So, you weren't pretending?" he asked. "Do you still like me?" He didn't want a lie, but he desperately wanted it to be true.

"You're still alive…" Freddy would have never talked to him like this back then. But that's not what he wanted to think about. He wanted to think about the meaning of the answer: _"I still care for you."_ It didn't matter what form that came in. He wanted to keep that cherished memory alive. Nick dropped his forehead against his shoulder, gripping his sweater tightly. "Shhh…" his fingers dragged over his back. Nick breathed in ash and sweat and sulfur as he wept into his ragged sweater. "Now, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," he lifted his face up.

"I need you to make them remember me." Nick furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?"

"They've forgotten me and what happened. I need you to make them remember what they've done to me." Freddy traced the back of his blades over Nick's cheek.

"What do I do? I can't tell them you're alive, they'll never believe me."

"Maybe not at first. But they will." Nick wondered why Freddy wanted this, but he decided it didn't matter. If Freddy wanted it, he'd do it. He had nothing to lose. Except for Freddy again. His life was a waste, so if Freddy had found a use for it, no matter what it might be for, he'd do it. It was a small thing for being reunited again, even if the form was changed and crude. Besides, there would come a time when death _would_ come to claim him and put him into the silent sleep he longed for. He just had to hold out a little longer.

"Okay." A razor rested lightly over his lips.

"Good boy." Freddy stood up, stretching his arms out as he floated backwards off the pedestal. "This town will not forget me," he vowed as he rose higher. "See you in your dreams." He bared his teeth in a menacing grin. "And stay alive for me will you?" He waved his knives at him and the ground dropped out from under Nick. He screamed as he plummeted with Jesus and his lamb staring down after him, and Freddy's laughter following.

He woke up on his back with a gasp. He was frozen and blind and there was a sharp pain in his arm. He felt it and came in contact with a bandage. The one he'd made before leaving home. He felt the rest of his forearm. There was nothing new. So, he hadn't done it after all. Freddy _had_ stopped him. Nick picked himself up. He had to hide what he'd done earlier now that his life was being extended. Nobody could know he'd started again.

He made the trek home, and stowed his goodbye letter again in its secret hiding spot, new purpose in mind.


End file.
